To my female readers, I propose that this may be analogous to attempting to wash forty bras as a single load, and then attempting to discern where one begins and another ends. To may male readers: Ever tried to wash forty bras?
From the dryer, I retrieved a nouveau-art clump of pockets, strands, and clips; thinking: "Who the fuck...?"
I was tempted to ignore this entwined cotton mass, as far as hanging it within sight, for someone else to decipher tomorrow. But I couldn't.
I could not because to do so would be lazy. Although I had not created this puzzle, I had found it. More significantly, I could not because I saw it as a puzzle.
Puzzles are for solving.
As a child, I remember my mother calling me to her room seeking "help with something." She was standing at her dresser, in front of an open jewelry box, holding a wad of chains. She could not disentangle them, and had summoned me; knowing that I would probably be able to do so. It was not my young-wee fingers, nor my astute eye sight, which she was in need of, but my willingness to appreciate attention to detail.
Tiny gold strands unlaced themselves in my mind's eye, before my fingers got to work.
I'm horrible with estimation. I can not accurately judge distance, nor age, but I've always been good with spacialization.
Standing in the wait station tonight, methodically imagining cords unfurling and tracing those imaginings with dexterous agency, I wondered why I do not possess the ability to extend this skill to other areas of my life.
Perhaps I may if I take the time to focus again upon details; consciously choosing to unravel them, so that I may rearrange them. I think to do so may create an opportunity to understand a larger cohesiveness.
It is not an atomist explanation to my life which I am pondering.
I am questioning my Gestalt life.
The whole is made up of, but greater than, the sum of its parts.
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